*Just like that. We've had lots of practice.'

*You've . . .'

*Don't ask, please.'

*But . . . anyway, I don't see you're going to shut eight hundred-odd people up. Odd being the word.'

*Again, Dan . . . you'd be surprised. Oh, I'm sure something might leak out eventually . . . but do you think those people are one bit proud of what went on out there? They're not only embarra.s.sed, but they're afraid of being implicated . . . and don't underestimate the Catholic faith either . . . if it does one thing well, it makes you a little scared for your soul, do you understand?'

*I'm starting to.'

*Add in resettlement grants, employment grants, all the benefits the Mother Church can bestow on her flock . . . you would be surprised.'

*Expensive, though.'

*What isn't, these days?'

*Of course,' I said, without any trace of subtlety, *I don't need a resettlement grant.'

*No.'

*Or, indeed, a job.'

*No, I presume not.'

*And I'm about as Catholic as Cromwell.'

*Are you trying to make a point, Dan?'

*A small one. What with all the life-threatening situations I got into in my brave attempt to save the Catholic Church from universal embarra.s.sment, I didn't actually get started any of that novel I was supposed to be writing.'

*You did rather get overtaken by events.'

*I was thinking another writing grant mightn't go amiss. Just to see me through the next few months. A year, tops.'

The Cardinal nodded slowly.

*Of course I haven't quite decided on the subject matter. My characters don't have to be Catholic. Or live on an island. They wouldn't have to go within a hundred miles of an island, any island. They could be practically housebound. I'll put them in wheelchairs if you insist.'

*Blackmail is such an ugly word, I think,' said the Cardinal.

*So is starvation, it's much longer and worth a h.e.l.l of a lot more in Scrabble.' I had no idea if it was, but it had the desired effect. He was reaching for his chequebook.

A few weeks later I b.u.mped into Father Flynn. At first I didn't recognise him. He'd lost a lot of weight, his walk was stooped, his eyes hollow. He was looking in a Waterstone's window on Royal Avenue. I walked past him once, then checked back when I realised who it was.

He was pleased to see me. His handshake was weak, but keen. *You haven't seen Christine or Moira, have you?' was his first post-formalities question.

*I thought you were sorting them out?'

*I was. I did. Then the Cardinal stepped in. He's moved them on somewhere. He thinks it's better that they have no contact with me. I suppose he's right. But I'm dying to see them. You get attached, y'know?'

We talked on for a little while, but there wasn't a great deal more to say. We exchanged telephone numbers. I took his on the back of a betting docket and lost it when I cashed it in the next day. A rare winner. I realised I was losing the number as I gave it in, but I let it go.

I hadn't lied to him, exactly. I hadn't seen Moira or Christine, and had no plans to. I'd been bad and would not stray again. Patricia had seen them, though. She'd been out for lunch with them a few times. They had a flat about half a mile from our house. Moira was back working as a nurse. Christine was in primary school, a year early and top of her cla.s.s. Settling well, apparently.

One day, when Moira went to pick her up from school, she didn't appear at the gate with the rest of the kids. Moira hung about, getting more and more anxious, then hurried into the cla.s.sroom.

Christine was there okay, with a teacher, but she was barefoot. Her feet were bleeding.

Moira stood frozen.

It took a while for the teacher to convince her that it was just that Christine's shoes were too small.

We laughed about that. And it's nice, laughing together; it's what we do best, that and fight. Sometime we even get to make love on the Magic Settee.

People tell you that once you have a child your life is never the same again. They're right. You get marooned on a remote island and nearly murdered by a bunch of radiation-crazed religious maniacs.

We'd probably started out the wrong way with Little Stevie. We had enough problems to overcome with him not being mine, without subjecting the three of us to life on Wrathlin. The idea had seemed romantic, and it had stayed an idea. Often, romance is.

One night, when Little Stevie was just about six months, Patricia and I stood in his nursery, hand in hand in the half light, just watching him. He was beautiful. Even his hair. It looked like it might darken sufficiently for him to pa.s.s as an out-of-season strawberry blond.

*You do love him, don't you, Dan?'

*Of course I do.'

*As much as me?'

*As much as you love him?'

*No, as much as you love me.'

*Yes. I do. I really do. Honest.'

*Thank you.' She gave me a little kiss.

*Thank you,' I said.

She gave me another kiss, then slipped her hand from mine. *Come to bed, lover,' she said.

She went ahead of me. I lingered by the cot. Little Stevie's eyes were open, there was the merest hint of a smile on his face. He was a great wee fella, and so what if he wasn't mine by blood. I'd look after him. I'd do him proud. Daddy Starkey.

Wrathlin might as well have been four years away as four months. He wouldn't remember it. He wouldn't remember Duncan, Duncan's death, the bodies, the mania; he wouldn't know how close he'd come to death himself, through illness, through my gambling his life on a hedgehog. Blissfully ignor ant, smiling there in his cot at nothing, not a care in the big bad world.

I stood for another moment by the door, then slowly turned down the dimmer switch. *Good night, son,' I said, and closed the door softly after me.

*Good night, dad.'

I was back through the door in a flash . . .

Author's Note.

Wrathlin Island is a real place, and well worth a visit, lots of birdlife, although it goes without saying that the people and most of the places mentioned in this story are completely fict.i.tious, with the exception of the Messiah, who is coming, so get your act together. Radon, likewise, does exist and can be found at varying levels in many parts of the United Kingdom. I would like to thank Dr H. C. H. Glochamner of the Department of the Environment's Natural Gases division for his valued a.s.sistance in researching this novel. I would like to, but he doesn't exist, nor does his department. Dan Starkey will return shortly.

Also by Bateman.

Cycle of Violence.

Empire State Maid of the Mist.

Wild About Harry Mohammed Maguire.

Chapter and Verse.

I Predict A Riot.

Orpheus Rising Mystery Man novels.

Mystery Man The Day of the Jack Russell Dr Yes Martin Murphy novels.

Murphy's Law Murphy's Revenge Dan Starkey novels.

Divorcing Jack Of Wee Sweetie Mice and Men Turbulent Priests Shooting Sean.

The Horse with My Name Driving Big Davie Belfast Confidential Nine Inches For children.

Reservoir Pups Bring Me the Head of Oliver Plunkett The Seagulls Have Landed t.i.tanic 2020.

t.i.tanic 2020: Cannibal City SOS: Icequake SOS: Firestorm.

SOS: Tusk.